Somewhere In Europe
by his-own-cumbercollective
Summary: Sherlock and John are caught up in WW2, brought together when Sherlock is injured in an explosion. Sherlock must go through a long and painful recovery, aided by his army doctor, John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a role-play between myself and the lovely MsCrumblebread. I wrote for Sherlock and she wrote for John.**

**I didn't have a beta, so any mistakes are mine.**

**It stops suddenly due to time constraints, but we hope to continue it in the near future.**

**Please leave some comments to let me know what you think.**

**Credit for the plot goes to MsCrumblebread.**

[Somewhere in Europe, November - 1940]  
>When the war began, John wanted to do everything he could to help, and with his doctor degree he was able to do a lot. He volunteered as an army doctor and enjoyed it. Sure it was draining to see the pain and injuries caused by the war, but he was happy he was able to help. John was currently working in the medical tent of an army base a few miles away from a battlefield. Soldiers and hurt civilians came through there daily with all kinds of injuries and problems, John did his best to make sure his skill helped most of them. Luckily for him, today was a fairly quiet day...well, for now at least.<p>

The moment he and his friends had been waiting for had finally come. Sherlock had been called to the front line after months of waiting to get into action. To fight for his country. What could be nobler? Before he knew it, he was in the back of a truck being taken to the English Channel to board the boat to be taken to the north of France. His friends had been with him the whole journey. They were together when they signed up, when they collected their uniforms and when they had their medical exams, but he knew that in a matter of hours, they would be separated. He would stay with only one of them, and that was if he was very lucky.

John had finished all his chores, for now. He had checked on the patients and changed a few bandages etc. But he knew that there was supposed to be a battle nearby soon, so that would keep him busy enough when the wounded soldiers arrived. For now it was just to wait, hoping there wouldn't be as many this time. He sat by his desk and continued writing notes on each patient.

When the boat arrived on the shore of France, Sherlock and the other soldiers - they were soldiers now, not just teenage boys - were rushed out of their seats and onto the sand. They were told where each of them was being sent, and Sherlock found himself with only one of his friends: Greg, whom he'd known since he started school. Sherlock had been picked on since the moment he stepped foot into the school, but Greg stood up for him. He was the only person who ever got to know Sherlock before judging him. They were then marched inland to where Sherlock could only assume would be where they would start fighting.

John's head shot up when he heard mines and explosions from far away. It had begun. He exhaled slowly as he rubbed his forehead. "Here you go John, you need this," A kind voice said. It was John's assistant nurse, Molly. A beautiful, young girl with golden blonde hair and kind, blue eyes. She put a cup of warm tea in front of John and he smiled at her. "Thank you Molly, prepare the beds and medicines, will you?" He said, sadness in his voice.

Sherlock's platoon had been walking for hours. He could feel the blisters forming under his feet, but he figured that they weren't even half way through their walk, so he kept his head down and put up with it. He could here small blasts in the distance which he guessed to be bombs exploding, but he couldn't be sure. He'd only ever lived in a small village. You can't get much more secluded than that. A few more hours passed, and Sherlock realised that they hadn't come across a civilian in many miles. They must be getting close. No one would choose to stay living near a war zone. The blasts were getting louder, the clouds were getting darker, and the ground was getting muddier. Sherlock was beginning to wonder what he'd signed himself up to.

John got up from his desk and went outside the tent to check things out. The sky around the horizon was getting black and grey, there was smoke smell and tension in the air. "Molly, do you think it'll be messy today?" John called out and Molly appeared from behind the tent, sighing. "Well, let's not hope so Doctor...let's pray for them to be safe and sound." She smiled and went inside to tend with the patients again.

Many of the troops slowed down and stared in shock as they were lead into the trench that would be there home for the foreseeable future. It was knee deep in water, rats were scurrying down the centre path, dead bodies were still lining the walls, yet to be removed, and the smell: it was indescribable. Sherlock had to duck slightly in order to be hidden by the trench wall. Sherlock caught up to Greg so they were next to each other. Greg turned his head and looked in to Sherlock's eyes. He was terrified, worry painted all over his face. They were no longer boys.

"God bless their brave souls..." John whispered to himself and nodded as he returned to the tent, it was warmer in there anyways and it was soon time to serve lunch. He was hungry but didn't really have an appetite either, thinking of all the horrors that may be ahead of them.

"Sherlock, if I don't make it out of this..." Greg started. "Don't talk like that." Sherlock interrupted. But he replaced his slight, fake smile with one of apology, a prompt for Greg to continue. "If I don't make it out of this, tell my family that..." He trailed off as a tear came to his eye. Only now did he truly understand what war was about. That some people didn't get to go home in the end. Sherlock looked up when Greg didn't finish his sentence. "I know." Sherlock tried to reassure him. The corporal then started shouting to get the soldiers' attention. "We've been at war for a year now, and I want to ensure it doesn't go any further. On my signal, you'll climb up the ladders, one after another, as quickly as you can. We'll take them by surprise. It's our best chance of advancing." Greg and Sherlock looked at each other and nodded in agreement. They would look out for each other in any way necessary.

John bit his lower lip nervously and kept gazing at the clock by the side of his desk. Soon. Soon young men, boys were to go out and fight. Fight for their country with pride. Some will never return and some will, but perhaps not the same as they once were. People change in war and John knows all about it.

Everything went into slow motion. Greg was half way up the ladder when the corporal was shouting in Sherlock's ear to get up the ladder, but it sounded so distant, merging with the sound of bullets and land mines, echoing around his head. He clambered up the ladder, getting mud all over his hands, but not caring, just reaching for a good grip on his gun and pulling it up in front of him. He stayed as close behind Greg as he could, but had to doge explosions which made it difficult. Sherlock ran as fast as he could, no idea what he was supposed to do. He was only eighteen, no worldly knowledge, He didn't even fully understand why there was a war going on in the first place. He felt the vibrations of bullets through his feet and helmet, as if they were right next to him. He slipped on the mud and ended up on the floor, scrambling to get back up. He was a sitting target. He looked ahead to see Greg running towards him, but before he knew it, the loudest bang he'd ever heard erupted right before him. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Greg's face. He was scared for his life, and rightly so. Everything went black and everything slowed down.

It had been a nightmare. Chaos everywhere and people kept coming in, wounded soldiers, seriously wounded soldiers. John and Molly kept themselves busy enough. When things had calmed down and most of the patients had gotten the attendance they needed, they could finally relax some. Every soldier was unique, but there had been one that caught John's eye. Of course John himself was very young to be an army doctor but he had started earlier, and that was why this boy had caught his eyes because he must've been the same age as John. Short, curly, black hair. He had been one of the most injured, half his leg almost blown off, a few broken ribs and internal bleeding. Luckily John had been able to do his best to help him, give him enough morphine and bandage his wounds. The next morning John went over to the boy's bed, which had private closed curtains around it, John entered and his eyes fell on the wounded boy lying on the bed. "Morning," John said, friendly.

Sherlock must have been lying in the bed with his eyes half open for hours as the first thing he could remember from that morning was darkness, but now sun light filled the tent. All he felt was pain radiating through his body. He noticed the presence of someone but didn't know who it was. That was when it dawned on him: where was Greg? He tried to lift his head up to get a better view of where he was, but it just sent a wave of pain through his head, like a lightning bolt.

"Hey, hey woah... calm down," John rushed over and helped the boy back to a comfortable position. "Don't move so much, your body hasn't adjusted yet, but we're still giving you morphine." John talked calm and his voice low. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock was surprised when a man who was unknown was suddenly standing over him, pushing him gently back down onto the bed. He didn't like being man handled at the best of times, but god knew this wasn't the best of times. "Greg? Where's Greg?" Sherlock groaned, partly through pain, and partly through rebellion.

"Greg?" John frowned. "I don't know who that is, but you need to relax." John continued to speak softly. "I'm John, John Watson and I'm your doctor." He introduced himself and checked Sherlock's chart with his notes on that was hanging on the edge of his bed.

"Where am I?" Sherlock knew he was in France, and that he'd been in a war zone, but he couldn't remember what had happened. Were he and Greg separated? Were they in the same platoon? Did Greg fight or was he spared it? These were questions he knew he wouldn't get answered for a while.

"Please, sir..." John checked his notes. "Holmes, I need you to calm down...you've had a hit to your head and other places and it's very important that you remain calm, okay?"

Everything Sherlock could hear was echoed and his sight was slightly blurred. He guessed concussion from said hit to the head. "Fine, if I must." It felt as if he wasn't really in the room. He didn't feel in complete control of his own body, and he couldn't stand it. He watched the doctor as he flipped through pages on a chart. He was young. Possibly as young as Sherlock, and already in a war zone. He was professional, but obviously horrified by what was around him. It was understandable.

"Do you remember anything? Anything at all, Mr Holmes?" John asked, pulling up a chair and sitting besides the boy's bed. "And don't worry, your leg will be fine," He looked down at his heavily bandaged leg. "Luckily we didn't have to saw it off, it wasn't that damaged."

"What do you mean "saw it off"?" Sherlock raised his head and looked at his leg to see layer upon layer of bandage wrapped around his leg, completely drenched in blood. He could feel a tingling sensation but didn't realise how badly it had been damaged until he saw it. He'd only been at war for a day and he already hated it. He may not get the use of his leg back and he was in agony from the waist up. "I remember some parts of what happened. The smell." A look of discomfort painted his face at the thought. "It's sketchy. I remember going over the top, but that's about it." He groaned again, just in pain this time. Breathing felt like his chest was going to explode.

John went over to a table nearby and got a syringe, he filled it with a double doze of morphine. "Here, this'll help." He said calmly. "It might sting a bit," he warned as he pushed the needle into his upper arm skin. "You talked about a Greg, who is he?"

Sherlock flinched as the doctor injected him with painkillers, most probably. The young man was well-dressed, but grubby. He obviously didn't have the means to have a proper wash. It was unlikely he would until going home. "Gregory Lestrade. We were in the same platoon. I think I saw him just before I blacked out. Do you know what happened to him?"

"There's a list actually, I'll go check." John replied. "Stay here, I'll be right back." He went to his office desk and checked through the list for a 'Lestrade, Greg' and there he was. When he returned to Mr. Holmes he swallowed hard before clearing his throat. "I, uh- I'm sorry...but he's..."

Sherlock watched as the man walked away with purpose. He returned a bit slower. He knew what was coming, and it wasn't good news. Sherlock rolled his head away from the doctor to give himself the tiniest bit of privacy to let it sink in. His best friend was gone; he'd never see him again. The one person who understood him.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes...I understand that it's hard to move on from all of this, but I give you my promise that I'll do my best to make it easier, at least medically." John sighed. Seeing the face of a broken man isn't easy, and not a man who has just lost his best friend. "Is there anything I can do for you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**As it was last time, the lovely MsCrumblebread wrote for John, while I wrote for Sherlock.**

**Please leave a comment to let me know what you think.**

"No." Sherlock said abruptly. Greg was gone and he had to get used to that, no amount of medication was going to change it. He closed his eyes as if to say that the conversation was over. He just wanted to be left alone.

John waited a few seconds, studying Mr Holmes' face. "I understand..." John nodded. "Just give us a yell if there's anything," He said before closing the curtains behind him. Once he was out of Mr Holmes' line of sight, he exhaled nervously. "God, I need a break..." John said to himself.

Sherlock wondered whether he had been rude to the young doctor, but it was only a passing thought, as he had more important things to think about right now. He'd just lost his best friend. Surely it was understandable that he'd want to be on his own. Then again, it wasn't necessary to be rude to someone who was only trying to help. Maybe he should apologise. Before he could say anything, the doctor had already turned around to walk away. Sherlock closed his eyes again and thought about what he was going to do next. It was likely he would be moved to a proper hospital, but nothing could be sure. There was a war going on, after all.

John wrote some notes on a few patients, checked on some and changed their bandages or gave them more morphine if they needed it. Outside, shells and bombs could still be heard. The sky was black and the stench was sharp, but John had gotten used to it by now. When the clock rang 12 'o clock, John got busy again because it meant lunch time. He, Molly and the other doctors prepared the food and handed the plates around. John got a plate and decided to go check on Mr Holmes. "Excuse me?" He said, before slowly pushing the curtains aside and stepping inside. "It's- uh lunch."

Sherlock had been in a light sleep so it took him a moment to realise someone was trying to talk to him. He looked over to see Doctor Watson again. Hi sighed, but subtly enough to not be noticed. The short man was holding a tray with a meal on it which didn't look all that appetising. Sherlock really didn't feel in the mood to eat anything. He just wanted to stand up and walk away, but that wasn't possible. He gestured to the foot of the bed to tell the doctor to put the tray down there.

John obeyed Mr Holmes' wish and put the tray on the foot of the bed. He gave a nod and a polite smile before turning to go. "Enjoy," He said.

Sherlock flashed a small smile at the man and thanked him, even if it wasn't whole-hearted. "Wait" he said, trying to stop the man. He swallowed, trying to stall for a moment to gather his thoughts. "I apologise. If I've been... cold." Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Most people usually just had a go at him and stormed off. This man was different. It seemed like he was looking for approval, but Sherlock couldn't tell. He'd never had someone stick around long enough to understand normal social interactions.

John let out a soft but reassuring laugh. "You're joking right?" He scoffed and crossed his arms. "We're at war, Mr Holmes...don't you think I'm used to people changing and all of that? You just lost someone you cared about, I don't expect you to be all happy and cheery, I understand...just eat your food, I'll be fine." He smiled sweetly and bit his lower lip. There was something. Something deep and intelligent behind the young boy's eyes.

Sherlock nodded slightly and a small understanding smile crept onto his face. He had been stupid to think that one man's actions could make a difference. Especially during a war. Sherlock glared at the tray of food and had no intention of eating it. Any of it. Even if he was hungry, he wouldn't go anywhere near that tray with a ten foot barge pole. It looked like it had been dug up. "I understand." He then put an emotionless look on his face, so as not to give anything away.

John nodded. He understood. They both did, somehow. "I know it looks like shit, but you need to eat it...you need the nutrition." John said and left.

Sherlock was surprised by the man's actions. He had no chance to retaliate as he'd just walked away. He must have been staring at the tray for ten minutes before lifting himself up to reach for it. He prodded at it for another five minutes with the fork before actually taking a bite. It wasn't awful, but by no means was it good. He'd only taken a few mouthfuls before he felt ill from the food, so he stopped. He lay back down and waited for a doctor or nurse to return.

John couldn't get Mr Holmes out of his head. He wanted to know more about him, wanted to know what he's been through and what he's interested in. At this point John couldn't understand his feelings, so he tried his best to ignore them for now. Every now and then, John tried to get up with excuses to go check on Mr Holmes.

Sherlock was starting to get bored. There was nothing to occupy him. He wanted a puzzle. Something to get him thinking. Even a book would do, but he wouldn't even be able to hold it up. It was painfully unsatisfying having a body that couldn't do what you wanted it to in order to keep up with your mind. He found himself wanting the doctor to come back just so he had a change of scenery. Looking at the curtains surrounding his bed was extremely boring.

This time John didn't have to come up with an excuse to visit Mr Holmes, because it was now time for the daily dose of medicine and morphine. He prepared a tray of pills and syringes and walked up to Mr Holmes' bed. "Just your medicines, here you go," John handed him a small paper cup full of different pills and another cup of water. While Mr Holmes swallowed the pills, John prepared the morphine syringe.

Sherlock was relieved to see the doctor round the corner of the curtains, even if it was to give him pills and injections. "Oooh, a gift. I am lucky." Sherlock said sarcastically. It was the first time he'd said anything to the Doctor that wasn't rude or selfish.

John just laughed and gave him the morphine he needed. "So, where are you from Mr Holmes?" John asked, walking over to Mr Holmes' wounded leg to examine it.

Sherlock was taken aback. The doctor had laughed at him, and he wasn't even trying to be funny. He took note that he should try again later to see if he could replicate it. He wondered about the relevance of the question that had just been asked, but assumed it was a social convention and complied. "London. Just north of the river. Yourself?" He wasn't really interested, but he didn't want to be rude again. The doctor could be useful.

"Dover," John replied. "Do you mind?" He asked as he motioned with his hands if it was okay for him to examine and touch his wounded leg.

Sherlock waved his hand to his leg to give permission. "I can't say I've ever been there." Sherlock winced as the doctor examined his leg, unwrapping the bandages. He knew it would hurt, but not this much. He'd only been at war for a few hours and he was already an invalid.

"Not everyone goes there either, there's not really much to see." John replied and he realized that they were actually chatting, like proper small talk and he usually never did that with the wounded soldiers that came in. Mr Holmes was different though. "Mmm, it won't take too long until this will heal."

"Marvellous." Sherlock said, part sarcastically, part disgruntled. If he had his own way, it wouldn't have been damaged in the first place, then he could just walk away now. "I don't suppose you have any paper and pencils around here? I'm finding it rather a challenge to entertain myself."

John looked up at him, trying to see if he was joking or not. When he found out he wasn't, he frowned. "I'm surprised, people around here don't usually ask for things to entertain them...they usually just lie around and get depressed on purpose because they wanna feel sorry for themselves." John shrugged but left and returned shortly with a short stack of papers and a pencil.

"Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the young doctor's comment. It was bizarre to Sherlock to think that people would make themselves depressed on purpose. He noted that the doctor had a sense of humour, but not in an immature sense. He also didn't seem to be phased by all of the horrific injuries he saw. it was as if he had many years of experience, but he was only young. This was not a common find. "How long have you been a doctor?" Sherlock asked. The doctor seemed to be rather bored. He'd already found three excuses that day to check on Sherlock.

"Three years, I graduated at the age of 17. I was youngest in my class actually," John said with a chuckle. Thinking of medical school brought back old memories. He got a wet cloth from the night table. "This might sting," He said and gently began rinsing Mr Holmes' flesh wound. "Can I ask for your name? I mean my charts only show your last name so..."

Sherlock thought about what the doctor had just said. Seventeen? So he knew what he was talking about. Sherlock winced again as his wound was cleaned. It was necessary, so he persevered. "You say "might", but you mean "will"." Sherlock stared at the doctor to scold him slightly. "Sherlock. And yours? If you don't mind my asking."

'Sherlock' John mouthed, just to see how the name felt on his lips. "John," He replied and finished cleaning up Sherlock's wound. He added a new bandage. "There, you're all set...well not to go or anything, but you're all set so you won't get any infections or anything."

"Thank you. If you don't mind, I'm going to..." Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence. He lost all concentration from the conversation. "I feel very light-headed. I think... I-I.." Sherlock's head dropped back suddenly and his eyes closed. His skin went very pale and cold.

"Sherlock?" John rushed forward, eyes alert. "Sher- Sherlock!?" He put his two fingers under Sherlock's jaw line, searching for a pulse. There was one, but it was fading. "Molly! I need emergency assistance now!" John shouted, gently slapping Sherlock's cheeks, trying to keep him awake. "Molly! Hurry up!"

Sherlock was vaguely aware of what was going on. It was like he was standing next to the bed and watching, but not understanding. He felt a breeze rush past him and he shuddered. He looked at his own body, examining every inch of it. Not that it was any help to anyone if he found anything.

Molly came rushing in and she and John began working. "We need to move fast, his pulse is slowing down. I was talking to him and he just faded, it could be blood loss but I'm not sure, just ready the medicines!" John shouted commandos all over and they both stressed around. "He's not responding...fuck! Why isn't he responding?!" John said and began. "Okay, okay let's just- I need to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation," John said and Molly nodded. He placed both his hands on top of Sherlock's chest and began pumping up and down in a rhythm. "Come on, Sherlock, come on! I know you can do this," John whispered.

Sherlock watched John do his job, stressing out at the sudden change of events but partly enjoying the rush. The thrill of having someone's life on his hands. Sherlock knew he'd be able to bring him back, but something made him not want to go back. He wanted to stay as a shadow in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**As per, the lovely MsCrumblebread wrote for John, while I wrote for Sherlock.**

**This is the last chapter so please let me know what you thought with a review.**

John kept on pumping up and down until he eventually noticed Sherlock coughing, his chest shaking from under John's trembling hands. "A bucket if you please, Molly" John wiped his forehead with the fabric of his coat. Molly rushed over to where Sherlock was waking up, and as he held out the bucket, Sherlock puked, some of it blood. John breathed heavily and took a few steps back. Molly handed Sherlock a glass of water as he finished puking.

Sherlock was suddenly pulled back to his body and was wrenched back into consciousness. However much he wanted to stay a shadow, John had done his job and brought him back to the real world. The real, awful, war-ridden world. A strong sickness rushed through him and before he knew it, he had his head in a bucket, throwing up the small amount of food he had eaten in the last few days. He dropped his head back onto the pillow to catch his breath and downed the glass of water he had been handed as quickly as possible to rid his mouth of the taste of vomit. He slowly peeled his eyes open to see John staring back at him, his face riddled with concern. He seemed to have aged a decade in the space of a minute. His whole body ached with fatigue.

"Welcome back" John said calmly, his pulse slowing down and his anxiety less noticeable. "Molly, could you excuse us for a minute? Thank you" John nodded as Molly left. "I'm sorry but it's my job to bring you back...I could tell that you wanted to let go, and believe me I completely understand that you want away from this cruel world, but it is my duty" He sighed and pulled a chair next to Sherlock's bed. "I felt that you began to give in."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to look at John. He was right and they both knew it. Sherlock kept his eyes closed for a minute while he formulated a response, but nothing came to him. He'd hoped that he wouldn't be having any more conversations, so he was unprepared. A feeling he was not accustomed to. "It's not like I have anything to stay for."

John couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle at that. "That's what they all say, but eventually they'll run off with some farm girl, marry her, have kids and live happily ever after." He shrugged and got up, getting two white pills for Sherlock to swallow. "My point is, you just have to find whatever it is you want to live for, it's out there somewhere I promise you. It's not worthless, it just seems like it at the moment"

"What if that's not exactly the life I want?" The words rushed from Sherlock's mouth so quickly he didn't have a chance to stop them. He wasn't sure what John's reaction to this would be, but he figured it would involve some confusion. Sherlock had never felt the same way everyone else had always talked about. All his friends used to talk about meeting THE girl. Sherlock had never felt this, or anything close to it. Any time he'd come across a girl, he was often left bored. The closest person he had was Greg, but now he was almost certainly gone, and Sherlock was alone again, and felt he would be for a long time to come.

"Then you find the life you want" John smiled a genuine, heart warming smile that reached all the way up to his eyes. "That's what's so wonderful, you get to decide yourself" He stood in front of Sherlock's bed and looked him up and down. "I'll- uhm let you get some rest now if you want to?"

All Sherlock could do was smile at John's response. He made out that life was so simple, that there were no barriers. "No. I-I mean, you can stay... if you don't have anything else to do, that is." Sherlock could feel his cheeks threatening to go bright red, but a couple of deep breaths soon sorted that out.

"How are you feeling?" John shrugged and looked down at his notes, clicking his pen and ready to write down Sherlock's response. "Still nauseous?"

"A bit." Sherlock hadn't expected John to stay in doctor mode, so felt a little disappointed. He hadn't had a proper conversation since before Greg had... well, yes. But he didn't know what he had really expected. After all, John was here to do a job. He couldn't favour one patient above all others. It was unprofessional. And if there was one thing Sherlock respected, it was professionalism.

"You'll feel better in a few days, shall you continue to eat the food we provide you and take your medication, you might get out of here in no time" John had no idea why that stung a bit, perhaps he had grown to like Sherlock. I mean there wasn't much in their conversations, but Sherlock was real and genuine, there was something about him and John couldn't put his finger on it.

Sherlock nodded ever so slightly and looked at his fingers as he played with them. He'd lost interest in the conversation instantaneously. He just wanted to get to a good enough level of health that he would get sent back to England. Then maybe he could start to put this behind him. But there was a small part of him that felt if he went now, something would be left unresolved.

"I'll let you rest." John said and left. He went to his desk to fill out the rest of the paperwork. Molly went around and served the patients their dinner.

Sherlock whacked his head back against the pillow in frustration. He wouldn't trade his superior intellect for anything, but it did hinder him in some situations. He layed in his bed, trying to sleep. He tried counting sheep, and cows, and all the animals on the farm to try to get to sleep, but it just wasn't going to happen. Instead, he sat and listened in to any conversation close enough to him to try and entertain himself.

When it turned late and everyone was asleep, even Molly, John took the chance of getting some air. He brought a pack of cigarettes with him, lighting one outside of the tent. The nicotine calmed his nerves and it felt good.

After finally managing to get some sleep, Sherlock was easily woken by the sound of someone leaving the tent. His curiosity and restlessness got the better of him and he threw his covers down the bed, flung his feet off the bed, reached out for a pair of crutches and fumbled to his feet. He knew if he put any weight on his bad leg it would cause him agony, so he did his best to make it to the tent opening without crying out in pain. When he reached the door, he noticed that it was John who had gone outside, however he was facing away from the tent, so Sherlock could stand at the tent door and John wouldn't notice. So, Sherlock stood there for a few moments watching the army doctor make his way through a cigarette.

John wrapped his lips around the cigarette and inhaled, closing his eyes as he exhaled. It felt good. He looked up at the starry skies, faint explosions and gun firing could still be heard, but they were safe here. The wide open space carried the sounds from miles away. John thought about Sherlock, and how he'd told him to find his own life, perhaps it was a statement to himself as well? John had no life outside of this, no friends and most of his family were dead, so if the war were to eventually end, he too would have to find a life.

In his present state, Sherlock found it harder to stay silent than usual. His breathing was heavy, he often needed to cough to clear his through, and he was in pain, meaning he wanted to groan, but he held it in as best as he possibly could. He looked up and down John's body. One arm was around his stomach with the other leaning on it to hold his cigarette to his mouth. Sherlock was fascinated just watching him breath in and out.

John finished his cigarette and threw it away, turning around. "Oh my goodness" He exclaimed but immediately lowered his voice as not to wake the others. "What on earth are you doing out of bed?!" John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock was startled by John's sudden exclamation and nearly toppled backwards, but managed to recover himself before he fell. "Couldn't sleep." Sherlock looked at the found, as if he were a naughty school boy who had just been caught out.

"You could've made your leg worse" John walked forward and bent down, gently touching Sherlock's wounded leg, which seemed fine. "Guess the medications are working then. Good to see you're able to use the crutches" He said and stood up, taking a step back because he realized he was perhaps too close.

Sherlock couldn't help but watch as John placed his hand on his leg, examining it so carefully, he could hardly tell it was happening. "Sorry." Sherlock made sure to get eye contact as John stood up. Maybe if John could look in his eyes, he'd see what Sherlock felt. But that was a shot in the dark that would never work.

John felt a twist in his stomach as he met Sherlock's eyes. He blushed and stumbled over his words. "You should uhm- get on, get in bed" He said quickly. "g-get in bed"

Sherlock smirked slightly. That was the first time John had stuttered in a non-medical situation, and it was amusing to watch. Sherlock knew he wouldn't get tired of John's company very quickly. He nodded in agreement and slowly turned to make for his bed. Once he was there, there was no other comfortable way of getting onto the bed than falling, so he did. It made quite a sound as the springs were stretched. The soldier in the bed next to him stirred slightly, but nothing came of it.

John peeked his head through the curtains. "A-are you alright?" There was worry in his eyes. "I just...heard a sound and then, yeah" When he realized nothing was wrong he nodded and bit his lower lip. "Goodnight then"

Nothing other than the obvious response of "goodnight" came to Sherlock's head, so he settled for it. Maybe things would make a little more sense in the cold light of day. He gently dropped his head back and lulled himself to sleep with the happiest thought he could think of. His friends back in London, his mother, John, the science, and a bit more of John. He couldn't explain why thinking of John made him happy, but it worked and before he knew it, he was asleep.

John made his regular morning check on all the patients, he had no idea why he chose Sherlock last but he did. "Morning Sherlock" He smiled and put down a tray of breakfast, and medication. "Sleep good?"

Sherlock could hear John making his round of all the patients. Every last one of them. And finally he reached Sherlock's bed. "I've had worse." Sherlock smirked at himself, and then smirked at the fact he was smirking at himself. He'd so quickly got himself in a confusing and embarrassing situation.

Sherlock's smirk infected John, making him smile widely. "That's good, eat your breakfast, you'll need nutrition to make your leg heal nicely" He stood there for a while, trying to remember what else. "Oh yes! I almost forgot, there's a letter for you, from your mother" He found the envelope in his coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock calmed himself, but struggled because he'd made John smile. He relaxed his face and composed himself before saying "thanks. I wondered when I'd hear from her. After receiving his mother's letter, he was reminded of home and another thought then came to Sherlock. "Do you know when I might be able to go home?" he said with a little smile. It was something that seemed so innocent to him, just wanting to go home to see his family and what was left of his friends, but then it occurred to him that it may not have seemed that way to John.

John had his back turned, his smile faded because he knew the truth. "Yes, actually only a few days away now" His throat suddenly felt sore and it was hard to get the words out. It hurt because although how much he hated to admit it to himself, he cared for Sherlock. It wasn't professional of him at all but he honestly couldn't help it. In the past few days he felt as if they had created some sort of bond. "You'll be able to leave in just a few days, excuse me" John left.

Sherlock wanted to call after John, but felt it was probably best to let him do what he needed to do. He felt stupid for not realising how that would have seemed, but in the end, he couldn't stay in this tent for the rest of the war. He had to go home eventually, even if it was a little sooner than either of them wanted. Sherlock couldn't wrap his head around why he felt so drawn to John. There didn't seem to be anything special about him. But who was Sherlock to judge.

A few days went and Sherlock ate all the food they gave him, he took his medication and was soon well enough to leave. John sighed as sat by his desk, filling out the release form and drinking a cup of tea. "I hope you find a reason to stay in this life, and I hope you find the life you want" John forced a smile and handed Sherlock the release form. "You did a great duty to our country."

Sherlock stood as tall as he could, trying to block out any emotions related to John and just thought about getting home. This tent that had been his home for a few weeks would soon be behind him, and a distant memory. The idea of being back in England was a happy one for Sherlock, because it meant not being stranded somewhere in the middle of Europe, but it meant moving on. Not only from being on the front line and from injury, but from Greg and John.

"Have a safe journey home..." John held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "...Mr. Holmes"

The only thing left to do was clasp John's hand and make for home. "Thank you... for everything. I, quite literally, wouldn't be here without you." He looked for any excuse to stay for just a minute longer, but it never came, so he turned around and walked towards the van that was waiting to take him back to the channel.

John cleared his throat and watched as Sherlock left, as he walked he supported himself on a cane, his leg still a bit injured. There was this odd sort of feeling stuck in John's chest and he wasn't able to shake it off.

It still hurt a bit for Sherlock to put weight on his leg, but he was able to live with it. There was another pain, however, he wasn't sure he was able to live with, and it was just starting to kick in. He clambered onto the back of the van with a helping hand from a soldier already on the van. He took his seat, facing directly back at John as the engine turned over.

John went inside his tent again. It didn't take long until another wounded soldier came in and took Sherlock's bed. Although the soldier replaced him, it wasn't possible to replace him completely.

The van pulled away and, as predicted, Sherlock felt a new pain. This one was in his heart, and felt much like a tug. He'd made a goof friend in John, do of course he'd miss him, but he felt worse about leaving for home than he ever thought he would. After a few hours, they made it to the channel and he knew he was really going home. Sherlock felt like stepping off the mainland was him truly leaving everything that had happened behind and moving on. With regret and pain, both physical and emotional, he stepped onto the boat and made for England.

Months later the, what seemed like an endless, war actually ended. John was happy to get back to London. He had spent far too long stuck in a tent, rinsing out wounds and hearing soldiers wail in pain. It was Friday, it was sunny and John found himself walking down the streets of London, people were cheery and everything felt as it should be.

Sherlock happily joined in with the festivities of the end of the war. A horrendous part of his life was behind him and he could really start to move on. It had been difficult going back to London without Greg and the majority of the friends he went to war with, but he carried on as best he could. He managed to get in with a detective at the local police station and she would tell him when a difficult case came up and would let him help. He was really in his element when he was deducing. It was a sunny day in the middle of summer and Sherlock was walking to catch a bus into the heart of the city. He still had a slight limp, but that was all that was left of the war in him, or so he thought.

John thought his eyes had played him a trick when he saw a familiar head of curls from across the street. He blinked a few times and then realized it was actually him. Sherlock, still with a small limp. He looked amazing, he had gained weight and looked healthy and well. John's heart skipped a beat and suddenly realized that Sherlock was looking directly at him.

Sherlock recognised him immediately. The tan hair and general look of optimism. His eyes locked with John's and he wondered for a moment whether to actually believe what was in front of him. He knew he was there, but struggled to take it in for a moment. He allowed a small smile to appear on his face as he started to walk in his direction.

John forced himself close his mouth which had dropped out of surprise at the sight of Sherlock. "Mr...Sherlock" He shook his head, not really believing this. "I- I never thought I'd see you again."

"I can say the same for you." Sherlock still had his little smile on his face, but it was much bigger inside. He knew John had made a big impression on him, but it had surprised him how much he missed the doctor when he left France.

"How- how have you been?" Sherlock was even better looking up front. "You look good, you-" he cleared his throat. "I mean your leg looks good"

"Well, yes. I'm good. I've kept moving which seems to have helped, but I'm sure you noticed I'm not totally rid of the effects of the war." Sherlock looked at John and soaked in his smile. He knew John had tried to cover up what he'd said, but thought it best not to point it out. Working with the police force had helped his social skills, if only a little.

"Yeah I noticed the limp, but it'll eventually pass" John pointed out. "It healed nicely," He nodded and chewed on his lower lip. "Well it was certainly a joy to see you up and about. Did you find that life we used to talk about?" He teased slightly.

The smile on Sherlock's face dropped a little. "No." He looked around at the people passing on the street, trying to gather his thoughts. "I like to think I'll find my path some time soon, though. What are you doing now that the war is over?"

"Well, I've taken a break from being a doctor, too much pressure" John sighed. "So now I just work at the library a couple of blocks away from here, and that's pretty much it."

"How long have you been back in London? I'd have thought we would have run into each other sooner than this." Sherlock tried to subtly look at his watch as he knew the bus would be coming soon, but he wasn't as worried as he would be usually about missing it.

"I came back here right after the war ended" John nodded and put his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground.

"Look, I'd like to be able to stay and talk but I was just on my way into the city. I've got a job...thing." Sherlock looked towards the ground to avoid seeing the disappointed look in John's eyes.

"Oh, uhm no it's fine. I shouldn't keep you from doing your job." John said. "I should be going anyways"

He didn't look to see it on his face, but Sherlock could hear the disappointment in John's voice. Unfortunately, Sherlock had been waiting months for a case as interesting as the one he had just been offered so he didn't want to blow them off. "I'm sure we'll run into each other again soon" Sherlock knew it was unlikely but wanted to sound optimistic.

"I really do hope so" John replied and really meant it.

"I'll see you around then." Sherlock made for the bus, determined not to look back at John. He was already late and couldn't risk losing this job.

John nodded and turned around as well, walking fast, heading for the library.

Sherlock couldn't help himself when he turned back and called after him. "John!"

John's head shot up, his smile returned and he turned around, giving Sherlock a hopeful look. "Yes?" He replied, perhaps too quickly, almost as if he had expected it.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. He gestured for John to come towards him, and he too helped close the gap by striding back the way he had just walked. This job I'm going on. It's potentially quite gruesome, a little stomach-turning, that sort of thing." Sherlock scanned John's face for a clue of what he was thinking. "I've been trying for the best part of a year to get this. But there's one slight problem."

John raised his eyebrow slightly. "What? What is it?" He asked, curious.

"I don't have a medical degree..." Sherlock continued to study John's face, but also the rest of his body now. He could see that John was genuinely interested, and glad, because it meant he wasn't being a fool.

John bit his lower lip. "What kind of job are we talking about?..."

Sherlock paused for a second. This was going to be an important moment. He knew that he was about to make a big ask of John, but if he'd read him correctly, it would be fine. "Murder. Potentially multiple. I go and tell the police what they're too blind to see."

John wasn't taken aback or anything, no reaction yet. He just stood there and looked into Sherlock's eyes for a while. Then suddenly it happened, a smirk spread across his lips. "Oh god yes."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at him. "It'll be dangerous, too." But if Sherlock knew John at all, he knew that wasn't an issue. The man volunteered to be an army doctor for God's sake.

"I've missed the war, the excitement," John had tried telling himself that he was better off without the war, but he needed it. He needed something to do and he needed the adventures.

Sherlock felt something he was used to feeling. He rarely got such pleasure from other peoples' company, but just the prospect of spending time with John made him happy. "You know you said I just need to find the life I want?"

"I am aware I said that, yes" John smiled and nodded eagerly.

"I think I've found it." Sherlock and John stared at each other for a moment, both grinning like idiots.

"Me too," John replied, his smile only growing.

Sherlock gestured for John to join him as he walked towards the bus he originally thought he would be riding alone.

John reacted right away, happily following Sherlock's steps.

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